


Context Clues

by zuzeca



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Dark Crack, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, I am so disappointed that was not already a tag, M/M, Masturbation, Not to be taken seriously, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sensory Deprivation, Sex Toys, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, detachable penis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 13:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7846318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While cleaning out a storage room in Sumdac Tower, Optimus stumbles upon an unusual object.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Context Clues

**Author's Note:**

> Archiving this here since I realized it's only up on tumblr and I wanted to be able to find it more easily than rummaging about through my tags trying to scare it up ~~and to make it easier to post a second part if I ever get around to writing it shhhh~~. This is actually the culmination of my long-running speculation regarding the dirtier implications of removable body parts that can still send feedback to their owner (a la the Headmaster arc in TFA), some [strange conversations](http://lyresnake.tumblr.com/post/127612421092/ker-i-have-been-sent-by-reya-to-discuss-the) regarding the fate of Megatron's spike when his body was ripped apart, and [one of Poof's doodles](http://slurpoof.tumblr.com/post/133644681359/lyresnake-will-provide-context-later). I have no defense, this is by far one of the strangest things I have ever written.
> 
> Why TFA lends itself so well to being both dark and cracky as hell I will never fully understand, but regardless, enjoy.

The halls in Sumdac Tower were, to put it the politest of terms Optimus could manage, undersized, but he did his best, hunching to keep his antennae from scraping the ceiling and trying to avoid leaving paint scuffs on the walls as he wound his way towards the sub-basement where, if Professor Sumdac’s mumbled and hedged descriptions were accurate, something which resembled a transwarp cell was located.

It was an exciting prospect. A new, or at least functioning, transwarp cell would circumvent the need for a complete overhaul of the _Orion’s_ transwarp drive and might even give them the warp energy necessary to make the jump back to Cybertron and warn Ultra Magnus of the Decepticon presence on Earth.

Optimus counted the doors, paused at the one Sumdac had indicated, and hauled the reinforced structure open.

Junk.

Piles and piles of junk, stacked nearly to the ceiling, masses of wires and bare metal, somewhere between obscene and macabre.

Optimus sighed.

Stacking and organizing the mess took longer than Optimus would have liked, but there was nothing for it. Wires were spooled, rebar stacked, sheets of metal set against the walls. He found a menagerie of half-finished inventions—most of which he didn’t want to know the purpose of—and nothing at all of Cybertronian origin.

Pushing down his frustration, Optimus wiped a smear of soot and metal dust off his face and sat, staring glumly at the remaining equipment. Something which resembled a high powered gardening implement Sari had once pointed out on the street, a broken device with cables sprouting from every edge that actually looked like it might have been enjoyable before imploding, and—

Optimus stared.

Slowly, he rolled to his feet and picked it up. Definitely Cybertronian in origin, by the feel of the metal, but this was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a transwarp cell.

Optimus hefted it in both hands, frowning. He wasn’t embarrassed by the device’s presence, per se, he’d possessed a few of his own on Cyberton—presuming his effects hadn’t been thrown out when he and his crew had dropped off the map—but none so large and, uh, elaborate. The designer had even included an impressive array of biolights, dark of course, the power cells probably having worn down ages ago, and, bizarrely, a transfluid line, a feature Optimus had never bothered with on his own toys. He fingered the exaggerated bumps and ridges and wondered if he could even fit it inside himself. And where had it come from?

Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers and with his own toy, the lone one he’d permitted himself to take on the mission, missing in the crash, or stolen by Bumblebee, in which case he really didn’t want it back, Optimus was more than willing to cut his losses in this particular endeavor. An overload or three would go a long way towards making him a better, or at least more patient, leader.

He tucked the model spike into his subspace and made for the exit.

*

The base didn’t have a proper washrack yet, but Optimus had befriended the woman who ran the rundown carwash and bodyshop down the street and she was always happy to see him roll through her facility. Clean and dry, his plating glossy with wax, Optimus was more than ready to seek out the quiet and privacy of his berth.

Avoiding the main room for now, he’d give his status report when Bumblebee and Bulkhead weren’t arguing over that deafening video game, Optimus returned to his room and latched the door from within. It was more of a polite ‘do not disturb’ sign since there wasn’t a bot among his crew who couldn’t break it down, but hopefully they’d get the hint.

He set the toy on the berth and looked it over, pleased to see that the base was more than wide enough to stand upright on its own. He hunted among the small cabinets and bins of the repair room he’d repurposed until he acquired the hardware that would allow him to affix it in place. It was a little awkward, but it would hold. He fished a tin of artificial lubricant from his own effects and sat on the berth.

It really was massive, almost absurdly so. Optimus tested the girth with his fingers and found he couldn’t quite span it. Not really his preference for quick bout of stress relief. Still, he’d researched his own specs ages ago and knew it should fit; he’d just have to take his time. He scooped some of the lubricant from the tin and smeared it down the side of the shaft, spreading it thickly and fingering the shapes of the nodes and ridges.

Lubricant dripped and pooled around the base of the toy as he prepared it. Sitting back, legs spread, he slid his coated hand down to his array and withdrew the hatch. He gently pinched the end of his spike, just beginning to emerge, and bucked at the jolt of sensation, before reaching beneath it finger himself open.

Vector Sigma, it had been a while. He grimaced and backed off at the burn of his fingers in him, readjusted himself on the berth and tried again, trying to let his processor drift into fantasy. It was impossible, not to mention awkward, to fantasize about any bot he knew, but he eyed the toy and tried to let himself imagine what sort of mechanism would possess something of that type. They’d be big certainly, more than Ultra Magnus-big.

Decepticon-big.

An exquisite stab of current rippled through his array and his valve clamped down hard. Oh yes, that was the right thought thread to follow, someone big and overwhelming, blanketing him, splitting him open… His valve squeezed and relaxed, loosening around his fingers and Optimus let out a deep whoosh of air as he continued. His own lubricant was flowing freely now, starting to drip onto the berth below him and he shifted up onto his knees, bracing with one arm and rocking to just rub the tip of his spike against the surface of the berth as he pushed his fingers in deeper.

The toy curved up before him, a mocking challenge that nonetheless sent a thrill of anticipation through his neural net. Optimus sat up and shuffled forward, situating himself over the toy and lowering himself, letting his lubricant gloss the tip and rubbing the sensors around the edges of his valve against the firm shape.  Optimus let out a deep breath and eased down.

He gasped out a curse and froze, legs trembling, the tip just inside him. Decepticon-big indeed. Shaking, he braced one hand on his thigh and reached with the other to rub his spike, counting the beats of his spark, his harsh gasps rasping loud in his audio sensors. At last his valve relaxed, the internal mechanisms spiraling open and it slipped in farther. His fingers tightened around his thigh.

_Oh._

It was _good_. Pain and pleasure signals warred for space in his processor, but he couldn’t deny that it felt amazing, pushing his calipers to their limit and compressing what felt like every node and sensor in his valve at once. He hunched, letting go of his spike and resting his free hand on his pelvic plating to feel the minor transformational shifts in his interior circuitry to accommodate it.

_I knew I could do it._

Optimus laughed weakly and wiped at his face, shaking. He felt absurd, riding a jerry-rigged toy on a backwater organic planet. It was the sort of thing that would have made Sentinel splutter and Elita-1 cheer.

Tucking the thought away, he rose up and began to ride the model spike in earnest, letting the silly fantasies of a conquering Decepticon, purring wicked words in his audio sensor as huge hands coaxed Optimus to participate in his own ravishing, carry him away.

*

The worst thing about the lack of a body, setting aside such obvious aspects as the inability to move and to rip the sparks from his enemies, was the sheer, utter boredom. While his quest to acquire the Allspark and destroy the irritating pack of Autobots had given Megatron purpose, there were only so many hours in a solar cycle he could devote to devising methods to achieve said destruction. During the workday—with Professor Sumdac puttering about the laboratory and being generally useless in his quest to rebuild Megatron’s body—there was little for Megatron to do but rest idly, allowing his processor to engage in necessary repairs or, when that became unbearable, research. He could have utilized his connections to the global informational network on this planet to consume what this pathetic species dubbed “entertainment” but he had not reached that level of desperation, even reduced to little more than a head.

He was resting, processor cycled down in light, watchful recharge, when a weak thread of current shot through him, lighting up several sub-processors and resulting in a flood of error messages. Rousing, Megatron frowned to himself. Sensory data, light touch and pressure, current.

_What?_

The signal strengthened, a cascade of current, increasing as it cycled, confused, pleasurable spikes of charge that he didn’t quite know how to process but greatly resembled…

_Oh. Slag._

It hadn’t occurred to him to wonder what had happened to his spike but—oh Vector Sigma, heat, wetness, almost crushing pressure—clearly someone had found it. Megatron’s vocalizer spat static.

“Hm?” said Professor Sumdac. “Is something wrong, Megatron?”

“No, Professor Sumdac,” said Megatron, biting back a moan. By the Allspark whatever his spike was stuck in it was _tight_. “I am well.” He prayed to whatever deity might be listening that the doddering fool would leave him in peace.

Professor Sumdac shrugged and turned back to his console, humming to himself. Megatron muted his vocalizer. With the direct circuitry disconnected, the feedback from his spike was diffuse and overwhelming, fireworks in his processor. He’d spent too long in this sensory-deprived state and the direct, deliberate stimulation was acute, processors starved for stimulus drinking in the charge, activation in his logic circuits, his battle computer, everywhere.

It was almost like having a body again.

He should have been enraged at the insult, the presumption—the very idea that someone would utilize his spike as though it were a mere bauble—but oh it was good, unfamiliar, gentle caresses he would have scorned in the berth but here, insulated in warmth and darkness, unable to protest, there was nothing to do but accept it, the slick heat, the teasing motion, too slow for his preference, that sent his charge spiraling inexorably higher. He could almost picture it, a forbidden fantasy, flat on his back, a lover almost too small for him—Autobot-small, his treacherous processor whispered—moaning and whimpering as they rode his spike.

How long had it been since he’d overloaded? Could he even overload like this? He found himself suddenly aching to find out. Fighting to keep his vocalizer muted, the crushing pressure of that ephemeral valve around him, Megatron did something he had sworn he would never do willingly, under torture or threat of deactivation.

He surrendered.

Megatron’s charge crested, overflowed. Distantly he heard Professor Sumdac yelp as sparks crackled along the console, the wires strung throughout the room. His processor hummed, warm and lazy and oh-so-satisfied.

Perhaps he’d only execute the presumptive mechanism and skip torturing them into deactivation.

*

It happened intermittently, at no predictable schedule, though thankfully most often after sunset, when Professor Sumdac had retired. He grew to anticipate it, to despise himself in how much he longed for it, his processor addicted to the stimulus that could only come from his own sensors. His prosthetic limbs, the mechanisms he controlled within the confines of Sumdac Tower, provided only a pale shadow of this…drug.

And then the day came, the one which he had patiently awaited. The power of the Allspark Key surged through him, rebuilding him, remaking him. He stood in the light of an alien star, whole once more, and wielded the might of his new body against his enemies.

He tried very hard not to consider too deeply which of them might have been making use of his assets all these months.

All too soon, he found himself brought low once more, cowering in the mountains with Professor Sumdac. No matter. He would rise again.

He would _not_ permit himself to regret that his spike was once more firmly attached to him.

*

Spark-sick and sore, Optimus trudged down the hall towards his room. He had a frightened crew, a weeping human child on the premises, possible Decepticons on the loose, and no idea of what to do.

He wanted nothing more than to lie down on his berth and recharge. Sighing deeply, he slid open the door to his berthroom, and froze.

A few stray flakes of early snow drifted through the strange, round hole in the roof to settle on his berth.

His empty berth.

The berth on which he’d hurried out and left the model spike toy affixed to when the Decepticons attacked, though he had had the presence of mind to lock the door.

_A model spike. In one of Professor Sumdac’s storage rooms._

He could practically hear the gears in his processor grinding, logic circuits making slow, careful, horrifying connections.

“You okay, Boss-bot?” said Bumblebee, poking his head around the corner. “That was a, uh, a pretty weird sound you made just about now.”

Optimus didn’t answer. Slowly, mechanically, he shut the door to what had been his room, making a mental note to borrow a welder from Ratchet and melt it shut.

He’d find another room.


End file.
